


Hancock Goes Feral

by Hancockles



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 18:02:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7448947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hancockles/pseuds/Hancockles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You've been hoping this day wouldn't come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hancock Goes Feral

You spent the last few days trying to find some sign of him.

At the start of all this, Hancock could still speak. Short, pleading rasps, gruffer than his voice was already. And what did he say to you? When the time comes, kill him. He can’t stand the thought of becoming one of those… things. But more than you respected his wishes, you feared losing him. So you locked him up.

He’s exactly how you left him: chained to the wall, a thick circle of metal around his neck, two around his ankles. You left his hands free. It seemed a bit too cruel. It’s not like any neighbors will come by to complain about it, anyway. You picked Nahant because of its isolation. Barricading the only road onto the island helped with that. Under different circumstances, this might have been a romantic getaway.

The thought makes you smile, and you look over at him. He notices and looks back. What is he feeling, you wonder. Fear? Anger? Another thought comes to you: hunger. He’s looking at you like any feral looks at a human. It’s an empty, cold look. It sends a shiver down your spine, and you turn your attention toward the broken-down window that looks out to the sea.

“When you were younger, you lived by the water. You told me that. You must remember, right?”

He groans hoarsely. He’s moving his feet forward, as much as he can, left and right, chains rattling. His fingers are wrapped around the metal collar on his neck. “Where would he go if I let him loose?” you think.

“Hancock,” you say, sharply. “Wake up.”

You’re on your feet and walking toward him, almost automatically. You stop inches away from him; he’s already pulled his chains taut, so you aren’t worried about him lunging for you. Hancock’s eyes look to you – through you? You can’t tell. He’s drooling, groaning softly, slipping further away from you. Your hands tremble as you watch him mindlessly moving.

“It’s not funny anymore,” you say. Your voice cracks. Your hand reaches for your gun. Maybe this time you can go through with it.

“Wake up!” you shout, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. Wake up, either you or him. It doesn’t matter. This must be a terrible dream no matter which way you slice it. Hancock growls, and for some reason you are surprised that he’s growling at you. He’s reaching out to you with claws, decaying skin, that horrible mindless expression. You can’t stop the tears from flowing down your cheeks. You square yourself and raise up your gun again.

Truth must be looked in the eye. You look into his eyes, and you don’t see anything.


End file.
